


Je désire la liberté de ce lieu de désirs étrangers

by crying_colors



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: #letcrutchieanddaveycurse2k18, 1600's-1630's to be semi-specific, A lot - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Historical, Apothecary!Crutchie, Apothecary!Davey, Buckle up, Mother hen/big brother dave, Only rated T because they curse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, because in this au they haven't met jack yet, bet that's a tag you've never heard before, crutchie + dave have a sort of a brotherly dynamic, so far just fluff, so is, that is going to change very soon kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crying_colors/pseuds/crying_colors
Summary: I desire freedom from this land of foreign desires.-In 1600's London, life could be worse for two apothecary apprentices. Sure, the chores were mundane, some of the things they worked with were dangerous (re: explosives, poisons, irritants, sensitizers, you name it), sleep was practically nonexistent, and there was the occaisonal fight or beating here and there, but it could be worse. 'It's only going to get better from here,' Davey chides himself constantly. Until, you know. It doesn't.





	1. "You know... Boom?"

_“Let’s build a cannon.”_

 

That was definitely not what Davey wanted to hear. He had his tongue pinched between his teeth, tuning out Crutchie as he scrawled out notes in a hand-bound journal. After a bit of Crutchie staring at Davey, the latter relented and huffed.  “What does that even _mean_?”

 

“You know exactly what it means, Dave.” Crutchie took the small piece of charcoal out of Davey’s hands and pointed it at him. “And you should use ink instead, you’re getting your hands all grayish.”

 

“I most certainly do not know what it means. And my quill was all the way up the stairs, the charcoal was closest.”  
  
Crutchie groaned, leaning back on the wooden cane he was using. His crutch had broken a while back ago and he had been forced to use a cane as a substitute until a new crutch was fashioned. “You know,” Crutchie started, spreading his hands. “ _Boom_?”

 

Davey frowned, reaching to take his charcoal back. “We can’t do that.”

 

“Why not?”  
  
“Because neither of us know how to make cannons, Crutch, and people don’t just _make_ cannons.”

 

“But that’s where cannons come from. People make them.”

 

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

 

“Also you are incorrect. I do, actually, know how to make a cannon.”

 

“ _What did you do.”_ Davey stopped writing, turning to look seriously at Crutchie.

 

“Lighten up, friend. All I did was rummage through my master’s notes to find the recipe for the gunpowder.”

 

Davey stopped, staring at the ground as if maybe, if he looked at it for long enough, it would swallow him whole and he could get out of this situation. “You are going to get into a world of trouble for stealing a recipe for _gunpowder._ ”

“I didn’t _steal_ it, I decoded it and copied it.”

 

“Did you stop to think that _maybe_ it was coded for a reason?”

 

“Yes, for an unholy amount of time. Lighten up Dave, it’ll be fun!”

 

“Building a cannon sounds more stressful than fun.”

 

Crutchie slowly took the bound journal out of his friend’s hands and shut it. “You’ve been taking notes on the same type of flower for three days, trying to get down every damned detail about it. Loosen up a little!”

 

Davey grew extremely still, before pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “This is a bad idea.”

 

Crutchie pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on and beamed.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Don’t you dare screw up the recipe.”_

 

_“I won’t.”_

 

_“The recipe is everything. It’s not like baking bread. Just a pinch too much or too little of something can kill someone.”_

 

_“You’re not the only apothecary, Dave. I’ve even been training as one for longer than you. Trust me, I know.”_

 

They both were padding down the cobblestone streets of London, the autumn sun bearing down on them and leaving little space for shadows to cast. Davey had a bag of the supplies they needed slung over one shoulder and was twisting it in his hands nervously. Crutchie was limping on ahead of him, intensely studying the coded message in his hands. Of course, on the back of the paper, he had already written down the decoded version, but he was checking himself. A mistake would be costly.

 

They stopped in front of an abandoned storefront, Crutchie pulling back the thin fabric of his jacket. That was when Davey noticed the apothecary sash that had previously been hidden, filled with vials of herbs and materials along with some tools. When Crutchie pulled out a small vial with yellowish-clear liquid, Davey folded his arms and huffed. “No.”

 

“I’m not climbing through the window, and the door won’t open.”

 

“You are not using oil of vitriol to burn off the lock.”

 

Oil of vitriol was something Davey did his best to _stay away from._ It was extremely powerful and just as dangerous, able to dissolve through even the most stubborn metals. And people. Davey would prefer to not see his friend get dissolved in their quest to _make a cannon_.

 

That thought had Davey deciding that his life was too stressful.

 

Despite Davey’s internal pleas, Crutchie just shrugged and cautiously took out the cork. Ignoring his friend’s complaints as he poured a few drops on the lock, Crutchie was careful not to get any of the liquid on himself as he finished and pocketed the vial.

 

Davey buried his face in his hands, determined not to watch as the liquid ate away at the door. A minute or so later, though, there was a heavy _creak._ Glancing up, he saw that Crutchie had swung the door open and was leaning on his cane in the doorway.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Davey reminded Crutchie as he followed him into the building.

 

* * *

 

 

The old building was one Davey had grown up with. When he was little, he had used to drag his sister here to play games without risking breaking anything in his own cabin. After he became an apothecary’s apprentice, though, the warehouse had become the place to experiment. If Crutchie and Davey broke anything in their own shops, they both probably would have to suffer their master’s wrath. That, unfortunately for them, usually meant extra chores or possibly a beating if it was bad enough. Davey shuddered at the thought.

 

Sliding the bag off of his shoulders, Davey gingerly set it down and toed it over to Crutchie. His friend had since lowered himself to the ground, folding and unfolding the paper it was on. Davey took it out of Crutchie’s hands, skimming over the side of the paper that had the decoded message.

 

“It says one part charcoal, one part sulfur, and five parts saltpeter.” Davey recited, making a face. “ _‘Grind separately and mix._ ’ _”_

 

Crutchie pulled a rag out of the bag, using a nearby counter to pull himself to his feet. He used the cloth to wipe the grit and rubble off the counter, not relenting until it was spotless. While Crutchie cleaned out a workspace, Davey pulled the jars of ingredients out of the supply bag and set to getting things ready to mix.

 

“You mix the saltpeter, I’ll get the sulfur and charcoal,” Davey stated, leaving little room for objection as he took out the bowls and such that they needed.

 

After Crutchie finished grinding the saltpeter, Davey was the one to pour all the ingredients into one bowl and mix. Davey had a bit of charcoal dust on his nose and hands (though he already _had_ a bit of charcoal on his hands before all of this), making his pale skin gray or even almost black in some places. Crutchie would snort any time he got a good look at his friend, to which Davey swatted him away.

 

After he finished, Davey stared at the powder before saying, rather unintelligibly, “...What now?”

 

When Crutchie pulled out a length of metal piping sealed at one end and a loop of cord, Davey raised his hands. “You stole cannon fuse.”

 

“I didn’t _steal_ it,” Crutchie said indignantly. After staring at the supplies for a bit, he relented and made a chuffing sound. “Okay, maybe I stole it.”

 

“You’re going to be in so much trouble.”

 

“Relax. My master’s out at a ball. He’ll have drank so much champagne he won’t think to recount his supplies.”

 

“And what if he counts them tomorrow?”

 

“I’ve lived with him for years, I know how he reacts to stolen things.”

 

“Stolen things you use to blow up other things you don’t own?”

 

“He won’t know unless we fuck this up terribly.”

 

“And you _don’t_ think we’ll fuck this up terribly?”

 

“Stop ‘yer gripin’, Dave, and help me find something we can use as a cannonball.” Despite his words, there was no bite to it. Even if there had been a venomous edge, Dave knew Crutchie well enough to know he wasn’t _actually_ mad. The pair had been friends for years, since before Davey had even started his apprenticeship.

 

As it turns out, cannonballs were very hard to come by inside a long-abandoned London warehouse. After searching for a bit, though, they settled on an eroded chunk of stone that didn’t even fit snugly in the pipe. It landed with a metallic _clang_ that echoed through the space as they dropped it in.

 

“Don’t aim it somewhere stupid, Crutch,” Davey huffed, resting his chin in his hands. He’d since sat down on the dusty ground a safe distance away from the canon and the fuse, watching anxiously. Crutchie mock-saluted before swiveling the canon out of the way, leaping back lamely, and moving to light the fuse.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, the cannon just made a faint creaking sound when it lit, and Dave’s first thought was _‘That was not worth the goddamn effort.’_ Moments after that thought, though, the cannon screamed and kicked back, throwing itself back so far it almost hit the back wall. There was a small flare of angry orange fire, before smoke plumed out of the cannon and reached towards the sky as if it was a spirit that had just been freed.

 

Davey grabbed Crutchie by the shoulders and pulled him away from the cannon protectively, coughing as the earthy smell of charcoal and sulfur filled the warehouse. Crutchie somehow managed to grab his cane and get to his feet while Davey was still on the floor, coughing.

 

“That was _so worth it.”_

 

 _“_ That was definitely _not worth it!_ The explosion was loud as hell, someone had to hear that.”

 

As the smoke cleared, Davey was able to see the damage. The stone had wedged itself into a wall, cracks webbing out from where it had impacted.

 

Davey made a mental note to avoid that wall from now on.

 

“Neither of us got hurt, it’s fine!” Crutchie was melting with laughter, one hand pressed over his mouth as Davey complained and got back to his feet.

 

“We should grab our stuff and go, before we get caught alone with a cannon.” Dave, always the rational one, chided. He already had the bag back in his hands and was carefully setting their supplies in it.

 

Crutchie nodded, bouncing over to Davey to help him. It was no more than a few minutes later before they were making their way towards the door.

 

When Crutchie threw a hand out to stop Davey, almost hitting his shin with his cane, the mentioned teenager really did wish that, back in the shop, the floor had swallowed him.

 

“Hold on!” Crutchie howled, grabbing Davey’s arm to keep him from leaving.

 

“Whatever it is, can we _please_ just leave it and get out of here?” Davey pleaded playfully, grabbing the collar of Crutchie’s shirt and gently shaking him.

 

“No, look,” Crutchie frowned, pulling Davey back to seriosity. Following what his friend was pointing at with his eyes, it took Davey a second to notice what Crutchie had seen. After a few seconds, though, he raised his eyebrows in slight alarm.

 

There was a faint set of footsteps standing out against the dust and grit as they crossed the floor, perpendicular to the direction Davey and Crutchie had come from and went to. They were obviously fresh, both from the look of it and the fact that they hadn’t been noticed when the pair first entered.

 

Davey’s first thought was to _run,_ but unfortunately his friend had the opposite idea. Dave found this rather unfortunate, especially as he was being dragged through the shop in the direction of the footprints by a teenager that was a head and a half shorter than himself.

 

Dave allowed himself to be pulled across the warehouse, because his experience fighting Crutchie was, unfortunately, very  _very_ nasty. For someone so short and with a gimp leg, one would expect a fight with him to be easy. (It's not.)

 

 _Whoever's out there,_ Davey prayed to any entity that might listen,  _please don't let us get killed. That would be rather unfortunate._


	2. Illegal, probably.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm. You know, if playing with cannons can count as calm.

_ Unfortunately, who had left the tracks was still here. _

 

This was discovered in a less auspicious way than Davey would have liked. More specifically, Davey tripped over another person (a whole other person! People don’t just  _ not  _ notice those things) while attempting to haul Crutchie out the door and away from the  _ ominous dark corner _ that no rational person would ever approach.

 

At first, he didn’t notice it had happened until it… happened. One second, Davey was dragging a grumbling best friend backwards in the direction of the door, the next there was a startled squeak from someone other than himself and Davey found himself sprawled out on the ground. 

 

Davey was quick to leap to his feet, bristling slightly. Thankfully, Crutchie was the one with the bag this time, and as Davey had been the only one to fall their supplies had remained in-tact. He felt a faint stinging on his hands, and a brief glance down confirmed his palms were skinned. Bits of blood and grit flecked the skin there, to which Davey clenched his hands into fists and turned to scowl at whoever he had tripped over.

 

Crutchie had absently rested a hand on his sash, again hidden by his jacket. Davey knew, though, that is this person turned out to be a threat they’d be able to hold their own in a fight, especially with the supplies they had on them.

 

The person Dave had tripped over looked to be about the same age as the boys, with choppy dark brown hair. He was pressed against the wall, looking slightly like a cornered animal.

 

Davey was able to notice the way the person was looking at them after a few seconds of a silent staredown. He was glancing at them scrutinizingly, intrigue glinting behind the wariness in his gaze. The apothecaries had plenty of stains on their clothes, which seemed to be what the stranger was looking at; the honey-colored treacle smeared on Crutchie’s pant legs, charcoal smudges dying the cuffs of Davey’s shirt black, flecks of dried blood on both of their pants, small white flecks of saltpeter caught on the hem of Crutchie’s jacket, et cetera. Their multicolored stains had nothing on the new kid’s clothes, though; it seemed as if there wasn’t a single inch of his clothes that weren’t torn, bloody, or streaked with mud. 

 

Davey continued scowling at the new kid, as though if he glared for long enough he could undo the entire morning and Crutchie and Davey could be lounging in Davey’s Master’s workshop instead of blowing up cannons and tripping over strangers.

 

“Who are you?” Davey bit out, still a bit bitter over the whole  _ tripping _ thing. The stranger opened his mouth to retort, but before he could Crutchie skidded over by pushing himself off the wall with his cane, crossed said cane behind him, and stuck out his hand to shake.

 

“What he  _ means _ is-” Davey felt an arm jab his side, not enough to physically  _ hurt _ , though his ego was wounded a little- “we ain’t ever seen you around before. What’s your name?”

 

The new boy stood up, brushing his hands off on his shirt. Davey couldn’t help but notice that this did not succeed in getting anything off of himself in the slightest. After the unfamiliar one did that, though, he shook Crutchie’s hand and grinned at him. “I’m Jack.” There was an accent slurring his words, unfamiliar to Davey’s ears, sounding sweet and smooth. Davey had to shake his head to clear his following thoughts a little.

 

Crutchie brightened up and opened his mouth to speak, but Davey beat him to it. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Gettin’ my ears blown off when I try to take a nap.”

 

Crutchie hooked his arms around his friend’s neck in a joking manner, which was enough of a distraction to keep Davey from firing a retort. “Don’t mind ‘im. He gets cranky after people scare him.”

 

“I do  _ not  _ get cranky when people scare me.”

 

“Yes, you do.”

 

Davey swatted Crutchie off of himself, looking sidelong at Jack. “Please don’t report us for being here with a cannon. That’s probably illegal.”

 

“I won’t snitch if you don’t tell anyone I was here either.” Jack looked thoughtfully at Davey, his arm resting on the wall.

 

Crutchie motioned at Jack, feigning an expression of affront. “But why are you  _ actually  _ here?”

 

“I told you, just lookin’ for a nap.”

 

“Yeah, but most people go to where they  _ live  _ to take naps. You don’t live here, because we come here all the time and we ain’t ever seen ‘ya before.”

 

Jack appeared to pale a little, but his expression didn’t shift at all so it was complicated for Davey to tell how he felt about that. 

 

“I mean, I’m from the orphanage down the road. Can’t really go back there right now.”

 

Davey noticed how Crutchie seemed to find a sudden interest in his shoes, and almost wished he didn’t know why. With a slight huff, Davey addressed Jack, “Why not?”

 

“Broke a window a while back ago and can’t pay for it. The guy who owns the orphanage knows and is pissed at me, so it’s safer for me if I just… don’t go back there for as long as possible. Been hoppin’ from place ta place so they don’t catch me and drag me back, ‘ya know?” Jack rubbed his arm, chortling quietly.

 

Crutchie glanced up, leaning on his cane and resting his face in one hand. “Then why don’t ‘ya work? Ain’t nobody gonna stop ‘ya.”

 

Jack scoffed. “I would if I could, friend.”

 

Davey butted into the conversation before Crutchie could press. “Well, you can stop by my shop if it gets… bad. My master’s out of town.”

 

Realization flashed across Jack’s face, which Davey found immensely amusing. “You’re apothecaries.”

 

“No shit, sherlock.” Crutchie set his hands on his hips and leaned forward, tutting as he held out his hands. The long sleeves of his shirt were stained green from the herbs he worked with constantly.

 

“Okay, okay.” Jack laughed and angled himself back, screwing up his face. “I get it.”

 

There was another bout of laughs, Davey feeling himself lift a little. Before anything else could be said, though, there was a faint clang.

 

“Okay, really, we should leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a lot shorter than I wanted it to be buy y'know. it was also kinda hard to write but,,,


	3. The Right of Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sorry
> 
> -
> 
> also i’m shamelessly asking for comments and kudos. i’ve been in a writing slump (i don’t like the only one of my works that seems to be getting any attention) and that kind of stuff... really helps. tha n k

A few days passed as usual. Davey’s master left town during that time to go study certain plants and remedies in Madagascar, leaving Davey to tend the shop on his own. And because Crutchie‘s master was drunk a good half of the time, that meant that they had plenty of free time on their hands.

 

They spent this time in Davey’s shop, with Jack popping in now and again. Today, though, was a lonely Thursday, with Davey relentlessly writing down notes and attempting to draw the plant buds he was working with while Crutchie boredly worked in the kitchen, baking bread for later.

 

They weren’t speaking much, but the conversations they _did_ have essentially just kept the same algorithm. Crutchie would comment on something that would make their afternoon more interesting, Davey would shut it down, and they’d fall quiet for another period of time.

 

“We could go shoot off the cannon again.”

 

“I’m not getting more charcoal on my hands.”

 

“You already have _ink_ on your hands.”

 

“No.”

 

“...Maybe Jack will show up. I hope he shows up.”

 

“Despite that being the most realistic thing you’ve suggested, any time he shows up he’s come around at morning. It’s the afternoon now, the chances of him breaking his schedule is infinitesimal.”

 

Crutchie groaned as he slid the pan of dough into the potbelly stove. He opened his mouth to speak, but before anything could be said a resounding knock echoed through the room from the front door.

 

A victorious look was shot at Davey as Crutchie hopped away from the oven and vaulted himself to the door with the cane, swinging it open. The angle kept Davey from being able to see what was going on, but he could at least tell it wasn’t anyone looking to buy something from his shop- they would have just walked in for that. Davey didn’t think twice about the oddness of it, at least not before he hears Crutchie say, “What the hell happened?”

 

That had Davey on his feet. When he looked back to the door, Crutchie was shooing Jack into the shop- Jack, who had a busted lip and new bloodstains splattering the cloth of his long-sleeved shirt and was proudly wearing a bloody grin.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, Davey wondered if he and Crutchie had a telepathic connection that they didn’t actually know about. Sure, friends who had _been_ friends for as long as they have were bound to be able to read each other and glean off the other’s emotion, but Davey hadn’t ever heard of anyone who could correctly guess what their friend was going to do next. That was to be expected, though.

 

Davey darted off into the back workshop to dig out a pot and start a fire in the pit. Halfway, he met Crutchie, who had a bucket of water and carefully poured it into the copper pot in Davey’s hands. Once it was full of water, they both flashed in opposite directions to do their own things- Davey placing the pot over the fire to boil and Crutchie putting up the bucket, replacing it with a jar of honey and poppy.

 

Jack watched them dance around the kitchen like rats, wondering if going to his basically-doctor-friends’ shop was an amazing idea or a terrible one. On one hand, _free treatment,_ while on the other Jack assumed he’d be fussed over or burdening them with his presence or both.

 

When Jack looked up next, he was greeted by Crutchie pushing a warm mug towards him and the sound of Davey beginning to clean in the kitchen.

 

“What happened to you?” The boy huffed, taking the seat across from Jack. The table the pair were at was small and uncomfortable, shaking with even the slightest presence of weight.

 

“Fight,” Jack responded airily, painting on another smile. He was good at painting things, even expressions onto himself.

 

“You walked into a medic’s workshop, you can’t expect me not ta push, friend. What hurts?”

 

“My ribs, I’ll be fine.”

 

“I gotta check if they’re broken, get up.” Crutchie responded, humming and leaving no room for objection.

 

A few minutes of awkward prodding later, Crutchie released Jack. After getting gauze wrapped around his chest and some of the blood cleaned off of his face, Jack decided to wander into the workshop.

 

He was too focused on the pain if walking to notice the workshop at first, but he couldn’t help but be a bit overwhelmed by everything in the room. He hadn’t been in the area before- of the few times he’d come around the shop, Jack had stayed out of the workshop. He wished he hadn’t.

 

Shelves lined the walls from the floor up, neatly stocked. Covering every inch of available space- workbenches, stools, cabinets- hundreds of apothecary jars took up the space of the workshop. There seemed to be an endless supply of liquids and creams and seeds and leaves and powders, enough to have Jack stop and gawk. He remembered seeing people filter in and out of the store frequently during the summer months, before most everyone had died or fleed or gone into hiding.

 

Despite all this, plus the intense amount of equipment swarming the jars (rods and tools and the like), the place still had an air of order to it. It wasn’t hard to move around, and everything appeared to have some semblance of organization.

 

Davey leaned out of a small niche Jack hadn’t noticed yet. His hair was sticking up in all directions, and there was a new smear of… something on his face.

 

“Crutchie, we need more madapple!” Davey shouted, his brow furrowed. After a few beats, a slightly muffled response was chirped out. “‘Kay! Want me to go now?”

 

“What’s madapple?” Jack asked, crouching down to look at the jars crammed under a stool. He was careful not to touch anything- with his luck, he’d shatter all the jars with a single touch, and whatever was in the jars would turn out to be extremely toxic and Jack would end up killing them all.

 

“Sure!” Davey barked out back to Crutchie, before grabbing a jar and three small clay cups. “I can show you.”

 

“Why don’ ‘ya just tell me?” Jack said airily, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he studied the jars.

 

“It’ll be more effective if I show you.” Davey responded blankly, walking past Jack and leaving him to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

They ended up sitting at the cramped and unsteady table, Davey across from Jack. Crutchie had left moments earlier for the shops.

 

The three cups were lined up in front of Jack, a copper pot of boiling water set next to them. Davey carefully set the jar he’d taken from the store in front of Jack, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Upon closer inspection, Jack was able to see what the seeds in the jar looked like- they were small and kidney shaped, with an inky black coloration.

 

“Crush them first, but put three in the first cup, six in the second, and ten in the third. Pour the water over it and let it sit.”

 

“I still don’ get why ‘ya can’t just tell me,” Jack mused, chuckling anxiously as he began to do so. Medicines and brews had never really appealed to Jack, as so much could go _wrong_ with them.

 

While it steeped, Davey leaned forwards and rested his face in his hands. “Do you know what asthma is?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack responded quickly, rubbing his fingers over the worn cloth of his shirt. Several children in the orphanage had it- the first winter Jack remembered spending in the place, S... the person who owned the orphanage started a fire to keep the place warm. There wasn’t much ventilation, and the smoke buildup cost two kids their lives. Their own lungs had chased the life out of them, while the adult watched on blankly and the children screamed. Jack shuddered at the memory.

 

“In small amounts, madapple helps treat asthma.” Davey’s words cut through Jack’s thoughts like a hot blade.

 

“Yeah?” Jack asked, watching as Davey pushed the first cup to him.

 

“That’s the portion for an average sized man.”

 

Jack’s brows furrowed slightly. If only three seeds were plenty effective, why’d he have to brew a cup with six, then ten?

 

Jack opened his mouth to question as much, but Davey started speaking first, pushing the second cup over to Jack. “This much causes horrid hallucinations, visions of nightmares. Once that’s gone, you’ll still be racked with pain for days.”

 

Davey handed Jack the last cup before Jack could voice his thoughts. “This much will kill you. Drink it, and in five minutes you’ll be dead.”

 

Jack stared at the mug, opening and closing his mouth like a water-deprived fish. Finally, he looked at Davey, his expression screaming _why?_

 

Davey laughed. _Laughed!_ Jack made _poison_  of all things Davey’s response was to laugh!

 

“What’s funny?” Jack babbled, folding his arms over his chest and looking cross.

 

“Crutchie did that to me when I first started training here. Before that, his master did the same to him, to teach him about how all the herbs and remedies are just tools and such. It’s sort of a right of passage now. If you start hanging out with us, you gotta learn about the death seeds.”

 

Jack feigned a look of affront, winding up a long and overblown retort about the whole ordeal. Before he could spit out the first word, though, there was a terrible bang from outside.

 

Jack sat up immediately, but the screaming pain from his ribs made him sit back down just as fast. _Oh yeah,_ he thought rather unintelligibly, _I got batted around like a shuttlecock._

 

Davey managed to get up even quicker than Jack had, his chair skidding out from under him and landing with a clatter on the ground. He started to dart off towards the door, but before he reached it, the door swung open.

 

Jack was expecting an insane man or something to come barreling through the door, screeching and brandishing a small musket.

 

Instead of any of that, Crutchie vaulted himself into the shop, slamming the door shut behind him and letting his cane clatter to the ground as he pressed his back against the door.

 

The wave of relief flashing over Jack was brief. Crutchie was panting rather heavily, his eyes wide and face pale. He was still leaning against the door as if attempting to prevent someone from opening it, though from the sound of it nobody was trying to get in.

 

It took Jack a bit longer to notice the way his hair was tousled and messy, the way his clothes were messed up and one side of his pants were streaked with dirt. Then Jack noticed the way his shirt collar was torn, and a single gash on the side of Crutchie’s neck dripped blood onto his shirt collar.

 

_Oh, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it should probably be mentioned that the orphanage is the refuge and pretty much all the kids there are the newsies.
> 
> and boots has asthma. he's not one of the kids that died, so don't worry (i love him too much to kill him oops)
> 
> aLSO a shuttlecock?? that’s like a badminton birdie. my minimal research says that back in the ~1600-1700’s, some kids would take small balls, attach feathers to them, and bat them back and forth with a homemade wooden paddle. so, like, old old-school badminton. don’t tell me ~1660’s newsies wouldn’t play the hell out of that.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually sort of a Blackthorn Key au. The book is amazing and scarily underrated, so I encourage you read it if you haven't. If you haven't heard of it before, don't worry, you don't need to know that to understand this. // the elements of this story that aren’t from that are mostly from a weird dream i had i wish i was joking.  
> -  
> sorry my french is shit.  
> -  
> *to the tune of letters* in fifteenth century london we make cannons we make cannons


End file.
